Burn Me Twice
by axisofadorable
Summary: America can't stop thinking about what happened with Russia. Rated M for more.


BURN ME TWICE

It's not my fault, America thought. It's not my fault that I can't stop thinking about Russia.

It had started with a kiss, one that America had never imagined that he could want. It had turned into much more than that. America was pretty sure that he had been begging by the end, and he knew that heroes didn't beg.

But if he had wanted something from Russia, Russia had given it to him, and then some.

It's not my fault, America thought anyway. I didn't want him to…

Except that by then, maybe he had.

But then Russia had put his big brown coat back on, that coat that covered up a multitude of sins, and Russia had opened the door of the broom closet and walked out.

He'd left, just like that.

And America, who had no coat to put on, and who had a lot more sins to cover up, had had to stay in the broom closet for HOURS waiting until he was certain that it was safe to leave.

So no one would see him. So no one would know.

Everyone had watched Russia pull him from the conference room, but no one knew why. They could never know why.

And it wasn't his fault, but he couldn't stop thinking about it.

It couldn't be his fault.

America had scurried home, which was not heroic, and in the shelter of his own house he had taken a long hot bath- which was also not heroic. And then, in the unlikely hope that everything would be a lot hazier in the morning, he had gone to bed.

He had dreamed of Russia.

When he had awakened in the morning, his memories of yesterday were still crystal clear- just as clear as they had been last night.

I let Russia, he thought. I let him.

I let Russia-

But maybe 'let' wasn't quite the right word. It wasn't as though Russia had really asked permission to take things that far. And it wasn't as though America was certain that Russia would have stopped, if he had said no.

But what America couldn't forget was that he hadn't wanted to say no. Not after Russia had pushed him up against the wall.

Oh, he had still said it, but not strongly enough to convince Russia that he meant it.

Why?

Because I didn't want him to stop, America thought. Even now, in his own car, his cheeks were red from thinking of it.

It's been a week, he thought desperately. Will I always feel this way?

Meetings had become painful for him. He couldn't look at Russia without blushing and stumbling over his words- so he just didn't look at Russia.

Russia did not seem to share any of the same problems. Russia didn't look at him, either, but that was because Russia never paid attention to anything that wasn't directly interesting him right then.

Which America apparently wasn't.

Anymore.

It wasn't that he CARED.

But he did wonder…

Why was Russia ignoring him?

Had what had happened in the broom closet been just a fluke? Just Russia being Russia?

Some spur of the moment thing that would never happen again-

Not that America WANTED it to happen again-

It was just that Russia had never been like THAT before. At least not with America.

I have to stop thinking about it. For the nth time the thought went through his head-

It's over.

Forgotten.

Something that never should have happened. Something that never happened, period.

His hands tightened on the steering wheel, and he ran a red light without meaning to.

Earlier today he had felt like he might be starting to get back to normal. It had been almost a week now since he and Russia had-

Since it had happened, and yesterday he had been almost himself. He'd been able to get the better of England, which somehow always helped at least a little with anything that was bothering him.

America loved England, he really did, but there was some sort of rivalry there that he couldn't get past, and England couldn't either.

Maybe that always happened in relationships like theirs- England had had the upper hand, until America took it away from him.

England would never forget that, and even if he wanted to, America could never completely forgive England for trying to clip his wings, either.

A hero has to fly.

Even if when he flies, he's just running away.

The morning was okay, America thought. He had had pancakes at Canada's house for breakfast. They'd been delicious, although it had been a little odd because Prussia had been there, and Prussia had been acting unusual, for Prussia.

But eventually he got hungry again, and that was when things had started going downhill. It was definitely lunch time when America looked at the clock, so he'd decided to eat something he cooked himself.

He could have gone to a restaurant, but for some reason he didn't feel like it.

There wasn't too much he liked to make, but there was one old stand-by that never failed him, and he wanted it then.

He wanted something that would make him feel more like himself.

He wanted hero food.

Hamburgers char-grilled by him on his own grill, with the buns toasted and with good old potato chips-

Not 'crisps,' England, but CHIPS-

to go beside them, all of it washed down with proper American Coke- that was what he wanted.

It meant a trip to the grocery store, when he really didn't feel like going out, but he thought he could handle a quick store run. If he stayed in, then he wouldn't be able to make himself feel better with hero food.

The trip to the store wasn't bad- his Mustang achieved super-speed in between red lights, and he knew he wouldn't ever get a ticket because he never did.

Bruce Springsteen was on the radio, and the wind was blowing his hair straight back.

I'm the hero, America thought for the first time in a while. He thought it all the way up until he saw Russia in the grocery store.

Russia. In HIS grocery store.

Russia. The one person he really did not want to meet, and Russia was here, at his place?

Why?

Russia hardly ever came to America's place.

No way, America thought. This is so unfair.

It wasn't heroic to say things weren't fair, but America was beyond caring.

Russia even never saw him. Russia was browsing ethnic foods and canned meat- canned fish, America thought, why the fuck?- and he never even turned around.

And America couldn't buy anything. Not hamburger meat, not chips, nothing. His hands started sweating, he knew his face was red, and he turned around, left his cart and walked straight out the automatic doors.

Fuck, he thought in the car. Some hero.

Now he was pulling into his own driveway and his heart was still racing. He knew he was flushed. His hands were sweaty on the wheel, and he felt sick to his stomach.

He had run away again. It seemed to be all he knew how to do.

Campbell's soup for lunch was not very heroic either. When he had eaten it- because he had to eat- he wrapped up in a blanket and sat down on his couch to watch TV. For once, Tony actually came and sat with him, which was nice.

But no matter how much TV America watched, and no matter how comfortable his position, especially after Tony fell asleep against his shoulder, America couldn't stop thinking about Russia.

Not just Russia in the store, but Russia kissing him. Russia touching him.

The look in Russia's purple eyes when Russia lost it, and there was NOTHING about Russia that was cold right then.

I hate him, America thought.

And then he thought: Everyone hates him. Maybe this is why.

America knew that he should stay away from Russia. That was a given.

But staying away hadn't helped yet.

He knew it was a bad idea before he did it. What had happened already was bad enough, but to go to Russia's house? That was just asking for trouble. Trouble he didn't need.

But there was something he did need, and he suspected that Russia had it.

He left Tony sleeping with the TV still on, and went back out to his car before he could change his mind.

When America knocked on the door at Russia's house, no one answered.

He knocked again.

I know you're home, he thought. You don't have any friends, where would you go? Open the door!

But when it finally did open, it wasn't Russia at the door, it was Lithuania. And Lithuania didn't look particularly happy to see America, which was odd because normally they got along really well.

'What's wrong?' America asked him, glancing over his shoulder into the house.

'Oh…' Lithuania said. He pushed back a handful of shaggy brown hair. 'Well… I think Russia might be in a bad mood. It's probably not a good time for visitors, actually.'

He looked down at his shoes, then up at America again.

Had he been crying?

'Russia's in a bad mood?' America asked. 'Did he say something to you?'

'Yes.' Lithuania said. 'No.' He looked down again, then glanced over his shoulder, blue eyes wide, as if afraid of being overheard. 'He's been very scary today,' he whispered finally.

America didn't see anyone else in the depths of Russia's house, just Lithuania looking small and cold and sad.

Those were definitely tear-tracks, he thought.

What had Russia done?

It was really none of America's business what Russia did with his underlings, but Lithuania was a friend. He couldn't pretend he didn't care.

'Can I come in?' he asked.

'I don't think so,' Lithuania said quickly. Then he took a step closer and dropped his voice until it was so soft that America could barely hear him. 'America, you should really go. When he gets like this it's not a good idea for anyone to be around him. Especially...'

He stopped.

Especially who? America wondered. Especially me? Is this my fault?

And then he thought: But you guys have to be around him. Lithuania and Estonia and Latvia, too.

If it was his fault, then he had to do something about it. Never mind why he had come in the first place.

'Hey I'm the hero,' he said. And then, because Lithuania looked like he needed some reassurance, America put his hand on the other's shoulder and patted it. 'The hero's not scared of Russia,' he lied. 'Actually, I need to see him, so can you get him for me?'

'I… I guess so,' Lithuania said. 'But are you sure you want me to? He's not going to be... very nice.'

'I think I can handle him.'

Another lie.

Actually, America was sure that he couldn't handle Russia. If Russia was being mean to Lithuania and the others, doubtless he would be a lot meaner to America.

He's forgotten everything that happened, America thought. Or worse yet- he hasn't forgotten it, he's just sorry that it did happen.

Why am I even here?

Lithuania is right. I should go.

He opened his mouth to say so, and then he realized that it was too late. Lithuania was already gone.

Well, damn.

Part of him wanted to just leave, but he was a hero, and heroes don't run away. Not when they can stop themselves.

Instead he waited, until he heard footsteps approaching the door.

They were slow, and purposeful, and against his will they made him tremble.

That's not Lithuania, he thought.

'America.'

There was something in Russia's voice that made the hackles stand up on the back of America's neck. He looked up, clenching his jaw and trying to keep the apprehension out of his eyes.

He had an idea that he had failed, that Russia saw the fear, and liked it. That would be like Russia.

America bit his lip.

This could be bad. Very bad. Lifting his head, he looked at Russia without flinching.

Lithuania was nowhere in sight, just Russia.

Maybe it wasn't too late to run away after all.

'He's been very scary today,' Lithuania had said.

America could see why.

Russia was not smiling, and there was a strange dead look in his lilac eyes.

'H-Hey,' America said finally. His tongue twisted over itself and he winced.

'What do you want?' Russia asked.

'Huh?' Somehow America hadn't expected that question, although of course it would be the first one that Russia asked.

'What do you want?' Russia repeated. 'You come to my place, you want something, da? So, what?'

'I… wanted to talk to you.'

'So, talk.'

This was a bad idea, America thought. His cheeks felt hot, and he wondered if he was blushing.

God, I hope not, he thought.

'I-' He stopped and licked his lips. 'I'm sorry,' he said finally, with far less surety than he had ever said anything before. 'I may have made a mistake.'

He knew that he should say something about Lithuania and the others. He also knew that he wouldn't.

Some hero.

'You've made many mistakes,' Russia said. 'This wouldn't be the first. Run home, little frightened boy. There is nothing for you here.'

He started to close the door, and for the first time in a long time, America got angry.

'Hey,' he said. He caught the edge of the door in his hand, stopping it. 'You think this is okay? You think it's okay to just take what you want and forget it? Well, fuck you. I didn't want this. I didn't want you to… to…'

'To what?' Russia asked.

'Forget it.' But America didn't let go of the door.

'You didn't want me to,' Russia said. 'But you came here.'

'I came here to tell you to leave me alone!' America snapped.

Russia shrugged. 'I am leaving you alone. Da?'

'You… Fuck.' Now America let go of the door. 'I'm going home,' he said.

He turned, and a black-gloved hand dropped heavily onto his shoulder.

'I changed my mind,' Russia said. 'Come upstairs.'

'No.' America tried to move out from under the hand, and it tightened.

'That wasn't an ask,' Russia said. 'A… request, da? It wasn't one.'

'Let me go.'

'No.'

America turned his head. Russia's eyes were still dead, but he was smiling now. America thought: Oh, shit.

'Let me go, please,' he said. Heroes don't beg, but he was rapidly finding out that he was not a hero when it came to Russia. He didn't want to go upstairs. This wouldn't be like the broom closet. He could feel Russia's fingers biting into the muscle of his shoulder as though they wanted to touch bone. It hurt, but the empty look in Russia's eyes hurt worse.

Why is he looking at me like that? America wondered. Does he even see me?

'Come.' Russia pulled him into the house and closed the door. Now America saw Lithuania hovering in the parlor. His fingers were wound together and he looked terrified.

'Oh no,' he mouthed.

America shook his head fractionally. 'It's okay,' he mouthed back, hoping that Lithuania could read his lips.

Russia turned his head and looked at Lithuania. 'Get out,' he said. 'The others too, da?'

'Why?' America asked. He was starting to tremble, reaction shivers that he couldn't control. He was frightened, but there was something else there too.

I don't want this! he thought fiercely. I don't!

What would Russia do to him? Was it just violence? He didn't think so.

Lithuania backed away, then turned and ran.

Russia pulled America toward the stairs.

His room, America thought. He's taking me to his room.

He'd never been there. He'd been to Russia's place but never been in Russia's house before.

This wasn't how he had imagined this happening.

Or maybe he hadn't imagined this happening at all.

Russia's room was smaller than America had expected, and dark. The bed was narrow, and the windows were covered with heavy cloth, as if Russia wanted to hide from the light. It was cold, too.

Russia pushed him toward the bed, and America flinched and dug in his heels. 'Wait-' he said.

'Nyet.'

Russia put his free hand on America's other shoulder and pushed him down.

The backs of America's knees hit the edge of the bed and suddenly he was sitting down on it with Russia looming over him.

'I didn't-' he started.

Russia bent further. His hands became a weight that pushed America backwards, until he was lying flat. He stared up at the ceiling with wide eyes, until the view was replaced by Russia's face.

Too close, America thought. He's too close.

'You look scared,' Russia said. 'Are you?'

'Yeah…'

'Why?'

'I feel like you want to hurt me,' America answered.

'I want to hear you beg for your life,' Russia said. America could feel his breath. He was shaking, and he wondered if Russia could feel it.

'Why?' he asked.

'I think I'd like it,' Russia said. 'Would you like it?'

'I…'

'Do you want me to? Want me to make you beg? I can, da. If that's what you came here for.'

America tried to sit up, and Russia pushed him back down. 'I didn't-' America said.

Russia cut him off. 'You're not sure, da? You're not sure why you came.'

'I know why I came.' He was angry, but the anger didn't help. Not against Russia.

'Then tell me,' Russia said.

America closed his eyes. 'No,' he whispered. 'I won't.'

Never. He would never tell Russia.

Russia let go of his shoulders. He felt Russia's hands on his face, cold black leather cupping his cheeks. And then Russia kissed him.

Despite himself, America made a small whimpering sound. The kiss was not cruel, as he had expected. It was not harsh or cold, and it did not hurt him. Russia's mouth was warm, and Russia's tongue slipped into his own as if he had invited it. Maybe he had.

America felt his own hands come up, and his fingers clutched into the heavy fabric of Russia's coat.

His eyes were still closed. Dimly, he felt Russia's weight come down on top of him, pressing him into the bed, and now Russia kissed him deeper. It was like drowning.

'I want…' he said when Russia stopped. 'I want…'

'What? Tell me.'

'I want you to… Please.'

'Want me to what?' Russia asked.

'I want you.'

'Da. You want me.'

Russia kissed him again, and this time it was the kiss that America had expected first. Rough and too intrusive, Russia's tongue halfway down his throat, Russia's hands in his hair, tangling it, pulling it.

He struggled, but whether it was to pull away or get closer, he couldn't say.

'Do you still want me?' Russia asked, letting him go.

America caught his breath. His eyes opened, and despite himself he saw that Russia's were no longer dead. There was something in there. Something that saw him now.

'…Yeah,' he said.

'Say, 'da, I want you.'

'Yeah, I want you.'

'Then have me.'

Russia pushed himself back off of America and unfastened his coat. He took it off and tossed it aside- beneath it he was in a sweater the same ambiguous pinkish white as his scarf. Probably knitted by the same hand.

Leaning down, he looked at America, who was still wearing his jacket and hoodie.

'You wear too much clothes,' he said.

'Sorry?'

'Da.'

Russia unzipped America's leather jacket and then pushed his hands under the hem of the sweatshirt, shoving it up.

The touch of cold gloves on his stomach made America yelp. 'Don't-' he said.

'Nyet. You don't tell me,' Russia said.

He pushed the sweatshirt higher, then made a small frustrated sound. 'No good,' he said. 'Take it off.'

'I can't.'

'Why?'

'You… You're on me.'

'Da.'

Russia climbed off him and America sat up. He slipped the jacket off and dropped it on the floor next to Russia's coat. Then he grabbed the hem of his sweatshirt in both hands.

He hesitated.

He could feel the tremor of his fingers against the fabric, and he wanted to clutch it like a security blanket.

But, 'Off,' Russia said.

'Okay.'

Quickly, before he could change his mind, America pulled the sweatshirt off over his head.

For a moment he was blind. Then the clothing was gone. He was in just a T-shirt underneath it, and the cold bit at the bare skin of his arms and neck.

It was FREEZING in Russia's room. Didn't Russia feel the cold?

America shivered.

'It's c-cold,' he said.

He hugged himself, and then Russia's arms went around him and Russia was pressing him back down on the bed.

The scratchy wool of Russia's sweater irritated his cheek where it was pressed against Russia's chest. Russia slid down until they were face to face.

'You won't be cold,' he said.

'Russia, please,' America said a moment later. He didn't know what he was asking for.

For Russia to stop?

For Russia to start?

It didn't matter. Russia would do what he wanted.

'Please.'

'Shut up,' Russia lowered his face until his mouth was hovering over America's. 'You want me to, da?'

'Y-yeah…'

Russia kissed him. Russia's hands found the hem of his t-shirt and slid under it, spidering their way up his chest.

He was moving too fast again, but America didn't care.

I want this to be forever, he thought. I don't want this to ever stop.

His own hands came up and buried themselves in Russia's platinum hair.

I don't want things to go back to the way they were before, he thought.

'America.' Russia wasn't kissing him anymore. Russia was leaning up on his elbows, looking down at him, but for some reason Russia was blurry.

'You're crying,' Russia said. 'I hurt you?'

'No.' He sniffed hard, trying to force the tears back. Don't fucking cry, stupid hero! 'You didn't.'

'Then why?'

'I'm sorry.'

'Don't be sorry. Tell me why.'

'I can't.' His eyes squeezed shut, denying the tears. 'I can't!'

'Can't what?' Russia asked. 'Tell? Or do this?'

'Tell.' America closed his eyes tighter. 'I'm sorry,' he said again. 'Please don't stop.'

God, he was so stupid. He always ruined everything.

'Idiot,' Russia said. His hands gathered America up from the bed, pulling him forward until he was lying against Russia's chest with his cheek against Russia's shoulder.

'I can't if you cry. Tears are salty. Taste bad. Like seawater, da?'

'I thought you liked them.' America sniffed again.

'I don't,' Russia said.

His mouth was close to America's ear, almost a kiss.

'Why did you want to do this?' America asked. 'The first time… Why me?'

For a moment he thought that Russia wouldn't answer, then Russia did.

'Sunflower,' he said. 'You had it. Pretty sunflower. I never noticed you smell like that before.'

'We grow a lot of sunflowers at my place,' America said.

'It's warm,' Russia said.

'Not everywhere. But yeah, a lot of it is warm.'

America was starting to relax a little bit. This was almost nice, being held by Russia. Russia was really gentle, when you wouldn't think he could be. It wasn't as nice as being kissed by him, though.

'I'm not crying anymore,' America said.

'Da?'

'Can we…?'

'You want to be my friend, da? Not enemy.'

'I want…' America shook his head, bumping it against Russia's arm. Why couldn't he say what he meant? 'I don't know,' he said finally. 'Do friends do this?'

'I don't know,' Russia echoed him. 'I never had any.'

America winced. 'Then yes, I want to be your friend,' he said. 'Or whatever.'

'Whatever, da. A friend would be nice, though. But if friends don't do this then you don't want friends?'

What was Russia asking him? 'I want us to do this,' America said. There, he spit it out.

'Even if you say no?' Russia asked him.

'Yeah.' America turned his head so that he could look into Russia's eyes. How had he ever thought they were dead? Russia was looking at him now, really looking at him. 'Don't ignore me in the meetings,' America said. Then he winced again and bit his lip. 'Ouch.'

'Let me see.' Russia put a hand under his chin and tipped his head up.

'It's-' America started. And then he felt Russia's tongue tip slide along his lip, soothing the bitten spot.

'Russi- ah!'

'Quiet,' Russia said, pulling back. 'I am concentrating, da? I have to make you beg for your life.'

He slipped his hands under America's t-shirt again, pushing it up to bare his belly and chest. 'You are built nice. I like this.'

'Mmph,' America said. 'Um… Thank you?'

Russia leaned down and licked him.

'Ah,' America said. 'Russia. Oh...'

'Lie back,' Russia said.

He leaned down and his hands went to the fastenings of America's pants.

Too late to stop now, America thought. He lay back and looked up at the ceiling, until the feeling of Russia's hand on him startled a yelp out of him.

'Russia!'

'I have to do this, da? This looks painful.'

'It's… It's not.'

It was.

Russia's mouth on him wasn't. Russia's hands on him weren't.

America was drowning. 'I…' he said. 'I…'

'Quiet,' Russia told him again, lifting his head. 'I make you feel, da? I make you feel until you can't speak. Just wait.'

'Lithunia,' America said. 'He was crying, he was-'

'Forget.'

Russia lowered his head again and America forgot.

Russia was right. He could not speak. He could only feel.

I want this forever, he thought again. I don't want this to end because I want… Russia.

I want Russia.


End file.
